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Sex Magik

Amanda Twiddle wasn’t a real witch. Nor could she, by any stretch of the imagination, be called a voodoo priestess. She was, however, at the not-really-ripe age of 29, a virgin with an aching need and a gift for manifestation. That fact, in and of itself, was a powerful combination. Still, it might have amounted to nothing in particular, if not for a fateful visit to Mr. Possum’s Imaginarium and Book Emporium.


It was there that Amanda made an astonishing discovery, at the bottom of the Discards & Discontinued bin: A tattered copy of The Encyclopedia of Ancient and Forbidden Knowledge, by one Casperius V. Postlethwaite, High Priest of the Order of the Sepia Twilight. It has been speculated, and vigorously repudiated, that the Zombie Apocalypse might never have happened if not for that discovery.


Truth be told, Amanda had no intention of bringing about the end of mankind. She just wanted to get laid. No easy feat, considering that Amanda was extraordinarily ugly, with a mustache that was the envy of every post adolescent with whom she came into contact. She had frizzy black hair, so lusterless as to reject light, and tiny ratlike eyes placed far too close to a nose like a zepplin.


All of which was made superfluous by a crooked smile, like a snaggle-toothed shark with an overbite – a smile that had made more than one strong and able-bodied young swain lose control of his gag response, in a grotesque and ungentlemanly fashion. She also smelled powerfully of boiled cabbage, which didn’t help matters any. The chances of Amanda ever finding a man who would bed her were, needless to say, extremely unlikely.


But, as desperation is the mother of invention, and the bastard-bearer of catastrophe, Amanda did find the book. She purchased it and studied it with an intensity borne of lustful desire. She might have skimmed right past the chapter entitled The Resurrection of the Deceased and Otherwise Corporally Inconvenienced, and plunged directly into the chapter designated Potions, Salves and Ointments for the Procurement of Adoration and Devotional Worship in Lieu of Cupidly Love, if not for the interjection of an ill-timed radio broadcast.


Amanda stopped in mid-scan to listen, as the voice on the radio recounted what to any other listener would have been deemed atrocious and heartbreaking, but to Amanda Twiddle was the beginning of an idea, both dreadful and appalling.


According to the broadcaster, the entire college gymnastics team – made up of eight lean and muscular young men, and six nubile and pliant young women – had fallen victim to a tragedy of epic proportions. While enroute to a collegiate competition, the bus bearing these young sleeping champions had developed a leak that diverted carbon monoxide from the exhaust pipe into the cabin of the vehicle. The athletes never awoke from their slumber. Their overnight trip became a permanent stumble into eternal darkness.


Amanda had loved to watch the gymnasts train in the afternoon, during her lunch break. So enamored was she of their perfectly sculpted bodies that she often had to hastily return to her car. Once there, she would find a seclude spot and drive herself to thrashing, orgasmic frenzy, via colorful and intimately detailed fantasies involving these objects of adoration.


For this reason alone, she should have been distressed by the news, but no sooner had she heard the words uttered, than her eyes fell on the title of the chapter in the book she gripped. She leaned in further.


Resurrection? Of the Deceased? She read the subhead of the chapter: Creating an Army of Mindless Minions and Undead Slaves for Fun and Profit. A monstrous smile spread across her pock-marked face, and her tiny black eyes sparkled like a black widow’s secreting spinnerette. Just like that, her path was set.


She began assembling the necessary ingredients immediately. The live chicken proved far easier to procure than did the dried swamp roots, and ground human bone, but Amanda persevered until she had every ingredient she needed to perform the blasphemous ritual.


Careful to study the charts and illustrative instructions with a meticulous attention, she gathered the ingredients together, drew out the patterns, lit the black candles and began chanting the words that would bring about her greatest desire. At the appropriate moment, she parted the robe that clothed her maidenly form and let it drop away, leaving her wickedly, thrillingly and passionately naked. One by one, the candles winked out.


Amanda stood shivering in the darkness, her tiny eyes wide and staring, and breath coming raggedly to her glottally-stoppered sinuses. She waited.


And waited. And as she waited, she became acutely aware of a chill permeating the air. Somewhere a cricket chirped. Her nipples began to ache and her labia to retract. Still she waited, eyes darting expectantly.


Finally, she grew tired of waiting and, with a dissatisfied grunt, bent and retrieved her robe. She threw it over her shoulders and fumbled for a light switch. Once she had achieved illumination, Amanda sighed and kicked the tome of Ancient and Forbidden Knowledge across the room.


An hour had passed; an hour filled with unladylike cursing and intemperate behavior. Amanda sat glumly on the edge of a threadbare couch, a deeply meaningful frown twisting her gargoyle face into a grotesque mask. Only the tapping of her slippered right foot broke the silence.


Then another noise interjected itself. A knock on the door. Not so much a tap as a bang, but performed in a laborious series that suggested methodical intelligence. Amanda harrumphed, pushing her horn-rimmed glasses across the vast expanse of her nose, and trundled to the door.


Throwing it open angrily, she stepped forward, her jaw unhinging to blast the unfortunate on the other side who had the audacity to interrupt her “me time.” Her eyes bulged, first menacingly, then in astonishment. The vitriolic expectorations dried in her throat.


There, standing before her, were fourteen pasty – but otherwise delightfully beautiful, and best of all naked! – dead gymnasts. Their dead eyes stared vapidly forward, focusing on nothing; useless organs in bodies motivated by other, less savory senses.


Amanda’s eyes dropped downward and fixed on the enormous erection erupting from the hairy, sinuous underbelly of the lead corpse. She squeeled with glee and stepped back to allow the zombies entrance to her small, meagerly appointed apartment.


One erection followed another, broken up occasionally by a shapely female form with perfect, gravity defying breasts. When all fourteen gymnasts were accounted for, Amanda closed the door, shucked her robe for the second time, and began her freefall toward destiny, with earnest.


Over the next three hours and 47 minutes, Amanda commanded a debauch unlike anything dreamt of by members of polite society. She discovered parts of her body, and her personality, that she never even knew existed. She experimented and her puppets never complained. She was rewarded with tingles, and chills, and powerful eruptions that rocked her to her very core.


If she had read about it, and understood what she had read, she put it into motion, twisting and turning the pliable, not yet rigor-affected gymnast’s bodies into obscene, at times painful, positions of sexual congress. Erections plunged dryly into no longer moist openings, except then they encountered Amanda’s eagerly drenched orifices, which they did, often. By the time she was finished with them, the zombies had been hard-wired to perform one task and one task only: sexual conquest.


It wasn’t purposeful, her intent. It wasn’t malicious, nor was it diabolical. It was, plain and simply, self-centered enchantment driven forward by that most pernicious of human exigencies: sex.


When Amanda had started her enchantments, she had been a virgin. When she completed them, she had sacrificed her maidenhood in the creation of insatiable sex golems. Unfortunately, it was with the monstrously endowed Captain of the team – the one who had first greeted her when she’d opened the door – that her incantation took full effect,


As she tried to push the rhythmically pumping corpse from atop her – exhausted, finally, and needing a respite – she found her resistance to be futile. The dead gymnast atop her had no intention of stopping. Nor, she saw, did any of the others, who continued to fuck, suck and bugger one another in a frenzy of exertion.


Something like fear clutched at her throat, and her heart began to hammer in her heaving chest.


“FUCK!” she groused.


Amanda pushed feebily at the muscular body grinding its rock hard organ into her soft, bruised tissues. She was too weak to make a difference. She had used up all her energy in sexual gratification.


“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” she bleated.


Try as hard as she might, the automaton continued its rhythmic dance. She screamed, first with anger, then, with fear and, eventually, horror.  




And fuck it did, its petrified protuberance grinding her tissues to tartare, and eliciting sounds from her that no human ear should ever have to codify. In time, the sounds stopped, replaced only by the wet slap, slap, slap of flesh against sticky flesh.


It took only a matter of weeks for the plague to spread beyond emergency status. Cities became battlefields, as dwindling armies of frightened and demoralized men and women succumbed to the hordes of maniacal, dead, fuck machines rampaging across the countryside.


Soon only small pockets of resistance remained, but even they fell, as the insatiable wave of flesh and desire swept over them.


And somewhere in the dank corner of a ramshackle apartment house, Amanda Twiddle mindlessly continues to play counterpoint to the monotonous metronomic thwap of her eternal companion’s tireless motion. Her eyes stare vacantly into a twilight distance where little remains of her humanity.


Yet, still, a spark exists in her metaphysically altered brain to generate one command, repeating itself in a constant loop of lunatic death rattles:


“… fuck… fuck… fuck… fuck… fuck…”

                                                                                                     *  *  *


© David Salcido, 2012. Registered with the Library of Congress and the Writers Guild of America, 2013. All rights reserved.

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